Sunk

It started a few days ago with what I termed my "ugly days". Those days when I can't bear to see my own reflection. I pick at every blemish and stray hair. I don't want to see my picture. I don't want to open my closet because I know nothing in there will fit me right. I see rolls of fat and wish I could starve myself.

Then those moments rolled into a depression. My meds needed to be refilled and the process happened in a way that caused me to be without them for a few days. Not good on any day, but especially not so when I’m having a rough time.

I have not made these issues a secret. I have blogged about them. I have said them out loud. My body language is obvious. I wrote about my over sensitivity and desperate need for reassurance.

Sometimes these hidden moods are difficult for others to keep in mind. Again, not their responsibility, but some gentleness is appreciated.

This morning my mood plummeted. It was one of those times when I would normally find a story funny, cute, even run with it by adding a little teasing. The extremely short, maybe three sentences, sent me into a spiral of blackness. I couldn’t wrap my head around it. On top of that, I felt so fucking stupid for even having that reaction. The compound just drew tears to my eyes. I was angry for the insensitivity of the way the brief story was told. I was pissed off that I was upset by it when I normally would not have been. I was disappointed that my reaction went unnoticed. I was immersed in a feeling of depression so quickly that I was taken off guard. I held it back until I could get to the bathroom. Then I cried.

Seconds later, I came out and went about the morning business of getting ready to go on a family picnic. Out on my back patio, my neighbor popped his head over the fence to say good morning. I told him that I wanted to put my head in a plastic bag. Not weird at all. Thankfully he also takes depression meds so he understood my sentence without passing judgment.

I got in the car and kept fighting back more tears. I felt my heart sink further down and I couldn’t breathe. I reached out. I asked for help. My therapist would be so proud of me. She is always on me about asking for help. In the form of a text message, I actually typed the words “help me”. The person on the other end of the technological life line was ready to respond. Thankfully, she wasn’t too busy. A sigh of relief. I told her how I felt without having to explain the whole situation and she understood what I needed. She wrote a brief message describing how wonderful she thinks I am and how important of a friend I am to her. She even threw something in there that was funny to make me smile. In a minute, maybe two, she was able to grab my hand and lift me up. (thank you so much, my friend) It was enough to get me into a mode where I could be with my family and have fun. It got me to the point where I could push the other stuff away for the hours we picnicked and played. When the picnic was over it all flooded my mind again. This time it did not hit as hard, but I could do without it all together.

You may be asking yourself…why not just talk about it? I don’t know. Sometimes these things happen and I can’t seem to find the words or the courage to bring it up. I sit, instead, and wish that my body language or tone of voice would be a dead giveaway. Once again I want the script in my head to magically transfer over to someone else’s head.

My meds are back on track and rebuilding in my system. I’m sure by Monday I’ll be feeling better. Until then, keep me away from the plastic bags at the grocery store.